


accessibility in modern garmentry

by androgynousmikewheeler



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Canon Autistic Character, Nonbinary Abed Nadir, Other, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 15:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30006822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/androgynousmikewheeler/pseuds/androgynousmikewheeler
Summary: Abed gets stressed getting ready in the morning. Troy offers his help, which comes with its own challenges.
Relationships: Troy Barnes & Annie Edison, Troy Barnes/Abed Nadir
Comments: 16
Kudos: 56





	accessibility in modern garmentry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dearzoemurphy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearzoemurphy/gifts), [transtrobed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/transtrobed/gifts), [merely_indifferent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merely_indifferent/gifts), [annieedisongf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annieedisongf/gifts).



Troy wakes up to Abed about a minute away from a full breakdown. They rocket around the blanket fort, mostly dressed, their attempts to stay quiet rapidly devolving, throwing things left and right in a frantic search. A string of nonsense and expletives tumbles nonstop from their lips as they pull at their pajama shirt. 

Troy leans over the edge of his bunk, peering down into the drawer Abed is rifling through. 

“Hey, buddy, you doing okay?”

They startle and throw a glance at him before returning to their mission. “Can’t find a clean shirt.”

Troy shrugs and climbs down to their level. “I’m sure no one will notice if your shirt is dirty.”

Abed squeaks. _"I_ _’ll notice._ I can’t just wear a dirty shirt all day. I mean, I guess I could do a character who would wear a dirty shirt, but then I’d need to wear a costume, and I don’t even have a character ready, and I’m already late for class!” Their hands gesticulate wildly, as their voice climbs a couple octaves, dissolving into a muffled scream. 

Troy presses his hand to their arm, and they grab it, intertwining their fingers with an iron grip. He can feel their pulse racing. 

“I did laundry a couple days ago. You can wear one of mine.“

Their grip loosens a smidge. “You don’t mind?”

He shakes his head and grins. “Blue okay?”

Abed nods, pulling off their pajama top. “Thanks, Troy.”

Troy tosses them a navy t-shirt, trying not to get caught up in the bare expanse of Abed’s chest. They yank the shirt over their head and grab their bag. Over their shoulder, they call, “See you in Anthropology!” as they race out of the apartment. 

Troy watches them go, a near anxiety attack and the concept of Abed in his clothes too much to handle after being awake for approximately sixty seconds, and goes back to bed. 

Despite not needing to get up for another hour, he doesn’t manage to get back to sleep, pictures of Abed in (and out of) borrowed clothes staining his eyelids. He does, however, manage to get remarkably hot and frustrated by the time he rolls out of bed. He takes a cold shower. 

He thinks he's enjoying the whole concept of Abed wearing his clothes a bit too much. Like in a weird way. The kind of way you're not supposed to feel about your best friend. And Troy isn’t _that kind_ of weird. 

Probably. 

* * *

When Anthropology finally rolls around, Troy meets an Abed who seems just as agitated as he is. They greet him with their standard handshake, and if he’s being honest, he's a little too caught up in navy cotton against brown skin to realize how fidgety Abed is. 

After half a period spent ignoring whatever bullshit Duncan’s calling a class today to watch Abed pull at the loose fabric as if it’s actively strangling them, Troy’s awe is replaced by concern. 

He leans towards them to whisper, as if it’s at all necessary in the chaotic classroom, “You okay?”

He’s pretty sure the look on Abed’s face is supposed to be a reassuring smile, but it comes out looking sickly and uncomfortable. Their eyes open unnaturally wide and their breath comes in quick bursts. 

“I’m fine.” They scratch at the back of their neck with an unbridled desperation, the skin already marked with thin white lines. 

“Is the shirt okay? Are you allergic or something?”

Abed exhales. “Tags. Your shirt has tags and I cannot stop being aware of them. It’s like someone taped sandpaper inside your clothes. Why do they think it’s funny to tape sandpaper inside everyone’s clothes? Is it a prank? Is it a really funny prank? Because I don't think it's very funny.” They squeeze their eyes shut, hands clasped tightly in front of them. 

Troy’s immediate instinct is to offer to trade, but a quick check reveals the shirt he’s wearing bears the same problem. 

As Abed starts to rock beside him, Troy’s stomach grows heavy and sick. His mind is doing somersaults trying to come up with how to help but it’s overcrowded with panicky idiocy. 

And then his eye catches on Annie, neatly arranging her highlighters in front of him. 

“Annie!” he stage whispers, the clamor of the room making sneakiness completely worthless. 

She looks up, eyes lighting up from deep, glazed boredom. “Yeah?”

“Do you have a pair of scissors I can borrow?”

Her eyes narrow. “Borrow as in I’ll have them back by the end of the day, or borrow as in I’ll never see them again?”

“End of the period. I promise. Please, Annie?” Though they may be less famed, Troy’s pleading looks can almost rival hers. 

She sighs and starts rifling through her backpack. “Okay. Left- or right-handed?”

“You have left-handed scissors?”

“Who doesn’t?”

He snorts. “Uh, everyone. Or at least everyone who isn’t left-handed.”

She glares at him. "Do you want the scissors or not?"

"Yes, please," he whines, "right-handed."

She hands him the scissors. "End of the period," she reminds him. 

He nods. "End of the period. Thank you!" 

He grabs the scissors and Abed's hand, dragging them both into the thankfully empty men's restroom. 

"Take off your shirt," Troy tells a nonverbal Abed. They yank it over their head in immediate obedience, scratching again at the back of their neck. 

Troy blinks at their lack of hesitation,

trying not to stare at the steep angles of their chest, the pale scars tracing the undersides of their pectorals, the lean muscle and slender bones. 

Clearly, he's doing a bad job. 

He clears his throat and takes the shirt offered back to him. His cheeks burn as he turns it inside out, taking hold of his prize.

Abed sits next to the sink and watches him. "What are you doing?" they ask, kicking their long legs against the edge of the counter.

"Cutting the tag off. So it won't bother you."

"Oh," Abed says, watching their sneakers for a quiet moment. They look up at Troy, sporting a slight but sincere smile. "Thank you."

Troy beams, butterflies flying through his whole body at that smile. "No problem."

He's careful as he cuts away the tags, snipping as close to the seam as he can. He even trims the edges neatly after he chops it. Abed watches him intently with that heart wrenching smile. 

When he finishes, he holds it out for them to feel. "Better?"

Abed runs a finger along the seam where the last remnants of the tag remain. "Better," they echo. 

Troy grins and hands them the shirt, which they flip right side out and pull back over their head. They shuffle their shoulders for a moment, testing it out, and then shoot Troy a finger gun. 

Troy sends one back. "You good to go back to class?"

Abed nods. "If you can really call that a class."

They do their handshake. Troy's heart flutters as he claps his hand against his chest.

It's shaping up to be an annoyingly emotional day. 

* * *

Abed gets home late that evening, rubbing at their eyes as they walk into the living room.

Troy looks up from the television and smiles at them. They're still wearing his slightly baggy blue shirt. He puts down his scissors to perform their handshake. 

"Was your shirt okay for the rest of the day?" he asks, studying them for any sign of discomfort or overstimulation, finding none.

Abed nods, settling into their armchair. As they look over the clothing piled haphazardly around Troy's chair, they ask,"What are you doing?"

Troy jumps back into his chair and holds up the scissors. "Cutting the tags off my clothes." His face heats, the back of his neck, the tips of his ears all burning. "So you can borrow them. If you want, I mean."

Abed smiles, a precious rarity, and Troy can't help but grin back. "Thank you," they whisper.

"No problem, man."

"I like wearing your clothes," Abed says, leaning towards the cartoon playing on the television, "It's like having you with me all day."

Troy's face feels hot enough to melt his brain. He can't breathe or think, let alone speak. A million fragments shuffle through his head, but the only thing that makes any sense is _Abed Abed Abed._

"Plus," they continue, "I like the smell of your cologne."

**Author's Note:**

> trans rights. good evening.


End file.
